


Bitter

by ameliapondss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Shameless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 21:27:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliapondss/pseuds/ameliapondss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just something short I wrote a long time ago...involves angsty John post-Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitter

Swirling tendrils of steam rose from the still-full mug he gripped in his hands. The smooth porcelain shone faintly in the dim room. The tea was cooling, but he didn't notice the warmth slowly fading from his hands. He looked ahead, staring at the empty chair in front of him, seeing nothing but illusions. For three years, he had stayed in this position. Closer to the shadows than the light, closer to the dead than the living. With a shivering, shaking hand, he lifted the mug from the table's cushioning hold and raised it to his quivering lips. The hot liquid seeped into his dry throat, yet he tasted nothing. Only the faint, coppery taste of blood. He felt a gentle hand graze his shoulder, and immediately the mug slipped out of his pale fingers and fell to the floor in a brilliant, albeit unnoticed crash.

"Sherlock," he choked. "Is that you?" He sat, frozen in place, heart skipping, waiting for an answer. None came.

Shattered pieces of porcelain were strewn across the grimy tiled floor, along with shards of his heart. Ghosts of what was lost to him settled in, watching the man who wallowed in sorrow. He drowned in his grief, it enveloped him and embraced him, and removed all other things from him. His life became a blur, and all that remained was the never ending grief. At night, as streaks of silken moon climbed into his room, panting faintly as they rested upon his clammy back in silver rays, he clutched the tear-soaked sheets, trembling with emptiness. There was a void, an unspoken space, filled with possibilities. Occasionally he felt another body against his, warm skin tracing his figure. But it was merely his lingering hope, contorting his mind into believing the illusions he so yearned to come true. Some days, as rain seeped from roiling clouds and trickled down his face, mixing with the tears, he would trudge along the field of stone filled with mangled dreams and lost love. His damp fingers would trace the name that once gave his life meaning, and he would fall to the ground, yanking soaked blades of grass from below and quaking with sorrow. The grass wrapped around the stone, holding on to the only thing that was important to him. He would bury himself in those tiny blades, allowing them to take ahold of him as well as the final remains of his love below him. And every day that he lay in the sweet grass, tears spilling into the dirt, begging for his hopes to be realized, a figure masked in shadow would watch, and wait.


End file.
